Once Upon a 'Pool in Mexico
by Thunder Magus
Summary: What happens when a man who takes jobs to kill people takes one to make sure someone DOESN'T get killed? Deadpool's adventure will take him south of the border, where he'll be rescuing beautiful senoritas and contending with a morbidly obese druglord.
1. Chapter 1

Deadpool, everyone's favorite Merc With a Mouth, drove his scooter down a bustling street, clad in his usual red and black jumpsuit with matching mask, clutching a sheet of printed street directions against the handlebar. The pedestrians on the sidewalks eyed the strangely dressed man, wondering why he would carry two katanas and a pair of automatic pistols while driving about the city in broad daylight. Of course, his strange manner of dress didn't go unnoticed, either.

"Alright, this is the last time I rely on mapquest. com for directions!" Deadpool shouted out loud himself. Taking the red light in front of him to his advantage, he reviewed the sheet of directions one more time.

_Should have taken a LEFT turn at Albuquerque drive, moron!_

"Hey, voices in my head!" Deadpool shouted, "Long time no see, but italic letters? What's up with that?"

_You know those little yellow boxes? Well this is a fanfic, so there can't be any of those. You get italic letters instead._

**And bold print letters in place of the white boxes, too! Don't forget about me!**

The Crimson Comedian growled in annoyance at this mishap. The directions were supposed to lead him to the location of another job. But of course, only if the directions actually WORKED! How could he be paid if he couldn't find the meeting place? For 'Pool, there was nothing better than money. Except for violence. And chimichangas. And money.

Distracted as he was in double-checking the directions, and being lost in his own thoughts, Deadpool failed to notice the traffic light had turned green.

"Come on, get that piece of junk off the road, schmuck!" the man in a Chevy Malibu behind Deadpool shouted.

Stupid rich snob in his stupid fancy red car. "Ah, go to hell," the mercenary grumbled under his breath. It would have served him right if he spat all over that convertible. Of course, spitting proved a difficult feat for someone wearing a mask. The Pool turned his scooter around the street corner-without signaling, no less. Big deal, he thought.

Backtracking his directions, Deadpool's involuntarily delayed adventure led him to a quiet back alley where a man in a black tuxedo and sunglasses stood waiting to give the merc his assignment.

**Nice suit…**

_Typical government lapdog._

"No kidding, check out his hair. There's enough grease in it to choke Ronald McDonald!" Deadpool said to the imaginary voices. (Though to him they were quite real.) He dismounted from his moped and approached the government slave, er, agent.

"Did somebody order a mercenary?"

The agent cupped his hands behind his back. "Indeed, Mr. Wilson. The American government will thank you for your services to your country."

"Cool. Just tell me who you want turned into swiss cheese with mayo and ketchup."

"We don't want you to kill anyone, Wilson. Sort of the opposite of that."

'Pool gave his thigh a disappointed slap. "Aw, hell. I was hoping to have some fun."

"It has come to our attention that the mistress of the leader of a large Mexican drug cartel has grown tired of his violent and abusive ways. We've been fighting this gang for months, and she's willing to give us valuable information that could very well allow us to put the wraps on these dangerous criminals for good. Unfortunately, we cannot risk sending an agent from the F.B.I. or C.I.A. If they were to be captured and the media caught wind if it, it could cause a national outcry." The agent uncupped his hands and pointed at the masked merc. "That's where you come in, Mr. Wilson. We need you to go into Mexico and smuggle her into the States for us."

Deadpool rubbed his chin. "So...I don't get to kill anyone?"

"If your cover is blown, you may be required to use lethal force in self-defense."

Lethal force. The words that grabbed Deadpool like a fishhook. Only not nearly as painful. And much more sweet. Not half as boring as fishing, either. "Ah-ha, now you're talking my language! I'll take that as 'rescue the damsel in distress and put anyone who tries to stop me on a lead-only diet.' You got yourself a merc!"

After digging around in the pocket of his jacket, the agent pulled out a single sheet of white paper, turning his head about the alley to make sure no one was watching. After satisfying himself that the two men were alone, he stretched his arm to offer the sheet to Deadpool.

"The details are all printed on this paper. I think you'll find the pay most…agreeable."

Deadpool took the list from the man's hand and looked it over. A satisfied whistle sounded from underneath his mask.

_$300,000!_

**That must be one heavy-duty damsel in distress.**

"Anything for a good paycheck, pal!" Deadpool said.

"We look forward to your success." With that, the agent returned to his initial hands-cupped-behind-the-back stance.

In all due haste, the Merc With the Mouth ran for his scooter, leapt onto the seat, pulled out of the alley and resumed talking to himself. "Alright, $300,00 and a trip to Me-hee-co! All the chimichangas and senoritas a man could want. Something tells me I'm gonna like this fanfic!"


	2. Chapter 2

Forty-two hours of driving, two nights at cockroach infested motels, three traffic tickets, countless bathroom breaks and $300 worth of gas later, Deadpool finally arrived at the Mexican border. Who the hell made mopeds so slow anyway? It would have been so much easier if he could just have taken a plane, but of course airport security treated everyone who tried to carry guns and swords on a plane like they were some kind of terrorist. How was that fair?

"Thank you, Al-Quida planejackers for ruining it for the rest of us," Deadpool grumbled to himself.

"Excuse me, sir" the border patrol guard at the clearance booth said, bringing Deadpool out of his absent state of mind. "Please present your passport."

"Passport? Come on, passports are for grannies and pencil pushers!"

"Then state your business."

_Don't tell him. Give him a fake answer._

"I'm on a government assignment," Deadpool answered.

**Way to go, moron. We're supposed to be undercover.**

"I'll have to see some proof."

Deadpool patted his jumpsuit down for the sheet of paper the agent had given him,. His blood froze. It was no longer there! Was that the sheet he'd used for toilet paper a while back? No, that was his sheet of cheat codes for Marvel Ultimate Alliance 2.

"Ah, here we are," Deadpool said. He produced a sheet of paper from some hidden pocket of his jumpsuit and handed it to the guard.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Wilson. The New York agency contacted us a few days ago. We've been expecting you." The guard pressed a button which caused the gate to raise.

"You're such a boy scout," Deadpool said, "I don't know how all those illegal immigrants get past you." He revved up the scooter and drove through the gate into Mexico.

"Thanks for ruining my trip, sun!" Deadpool shouted at the glowing orange orb hanging in the sky, which seemed to be laughing at him as it cooked him like an oven in his outfit. Jumpsuits and deserts were a bad combination, lesson learned.

The merc stopped to look over the sheet of paper the agent in New York had given him. It comprised of a crudely drawn map of northern Mexico, drawn so poorly Deadpool thought a 2nd grader could have done better. Underneath the drawing was a list of cities that held known hideouts for the cartel.

Roughly 60 miles southeast from the Texas border lay a town named El Pariso. As good a place as any to begin his search he figured. Besides, he was hungry, and this would be a good chance to pick up some authentic Mexican chimichangas, not like the cheap greasy wannabe 'changas from Taco Bell. Can't fight a drug cartel on an empty stomach, Deadpool thought to himself. He kicked the moped into gear and followed the map Southeast, kicking up a trail of dust that pursued him along the dusty dune road.

What seemed like an endless ocean of sand, cactus and rocky plateaus finally led the sun-baked and thirsty merc to a small wooden sign that read El Pariso, pop. 12,000.

It was a poor town, with most of the houses being cheap shacks and old adobes. The dark-skinned, sombrero wearing villagers all kept a wary eye on the strange stranger as he puttered through town, their gaze hung more on his various weapons and strange clothing he was wearing than Deadpool himself.

On one dusty street corner stood a crudely built stand made of wood, the top of the structure read "chimichangas." Even through his mask, Deadpool picked up the mouth watering scent of taco sauce. 'Pool parked his scooter, dismounted to approach the stand, and slammed a $5 bill down on the counter. "Uno chimichanga, papi!"

The worked behind the stand raised a dark, bushy eyebrow in silence.

"What the hell you staring at, Pablo? Er, I mean...que pasa?"

"We no take American dollar."

Deadpool growled out loud, taking the crumpled up $5 and stuffing it back in his pocket. How could he have forgotten to take his hard earned, one hundred percent legal American cash to a foreign exchange counter?"Listen, amigo. This is perfectly legal and authentic currency. I won't have you stand there and insult my people by not accepting this $5 bill!"

_It's not legal in Mexico, dingbat._

"Ok, papi. Where is the nearest currency exchange booth?"

"Go up northwest to Ciudad Juarez. You'll find one there."

Ciudad Juarez? That was clear up by the Texas-Mexico border! How was he supposed to make that trip again without putting something in his stomach first? Well, there was one plan.

"Alright, how's this sound? I'll make you another offer for one of your delicious chimichangas."

"Que?"

Deadpool whipped out the pistol strapped to his thigh and pointed it at the vendor's mustachioed face. "Your life."

The instant Deadpool brought out the gun, a crowd of onlookers screamed in terror, running for cover in a frenzied panic. "Ay, Dios mio!" One woman shouted, resting the back of her palm against her forehead prior to fainting.

The Mexican taco vendor held his hands to the air, staring down the barrel of the gun. "Easy, gringo! Por favor, Don't kill me!"

"One taco, my good man."

"Si, whatever you say, senor!"

Not wishing to risk a bullet to the head, the vendor quickly whipped together a chimichanga complete with beef, cheese, rice, beans and that savory, delicious red taco sauce and handed it to the crazy masked man.

"Muchos gracias, amigo!" Deadpool said as he took the taco in his hands. No time to lose, he would have to eat it on his way back to the Mexican border.

But, he was still thirsty. There was no way he'd try to eat an entire chimichanga with nothing to wash it down. He recalled various people telling him not to drink Mexican water straight from a river, though he didn't know why it would be such an issue. After all, it was just water.

"One more thing, pops," Dead pool continued.

"Y-yes, senor?" said the unfortunate chimichanga salesman, who was by this time so nervous his forehead gleamed with beads of sweat.

"Where can I find something to drink?"

The Mexican man pointed to his left, at a stone building next to the stand with a sign hanging from an awning that read "Supermercado."

Without another word, Deadpool pushed open the wooden door to the supermarket and approached the clerk standing behind the counter.

"Con permiso, amigo. Do you take American dollars?"

The man eyed Deadpool for a few seconds, then gave an annoyed shrug. Tourists, go figure. "Si."

Finally, someone who would take REAL money. After walking to the glass coolers in the back of the dirty, run-down store, Deadpool's eyes locked onto a nice cold bottle of Jose Cuervo. The amber colored liquor seemed to taunt at his thirst.

"Alright, the good stuff!" Deadpool said as he removed the glass bottle from the cooler.

_Drinking on the job? _

**Leave the man alone, he deserves a drink!**

_Don't tell me what to do!_

Deadpool slammed the bottom of the bottle down on the counter. "One bottle of Cuervo."

"23.98"

"Wow, you people sure charge a lot for some beer," Deadpool said, fishing around in his pocket for the money.

"Foreign exchange fee, loco."

Just another annoyance. Deadpool laid a $20 bill and a $5 bill on the counter, then left without even taking his change. With food and drink in hand, now it was plausible to ride his scooter back to the Mexican border.


End file.
